Travels With Becky

Last Words and Epitaphs, Oh My!

In Stratham we got to reciting. I told about my father’s (almost) last words, when he was being admitted to the hospital for what he (and we all) knew would be his last stay.  As the nurses were helping him move across the room, he paused to catch his breath.  Earlier, he and I had been telling stories and he’d recited his favorite poem.  He regaled the nurses with:

The boy stood on the burning deck
His feet all full of blisters.
He had no britches of his own.
So he had to wear his sisters.

Then he said:  “I’d appreciate some applause.”

We all applauded.

This story inspired a lovely lady named Barbara to do a little reciting of her own.  A crowd favorite, which we made her repeat, was this epitaph:

Here lies the body of Henry Gray
He died defending his right of way.
His way was right, his will was strong,
But he’s just as dead as if he was wrong.

Which got me interested in epitaphs, so I did a little googling.  Here’s my favorite, so far:

Here lies the Atheist, John Doe
All dressed up and no place to go.

Father Knows Best

I’ve been telling the story of Razor True, Warren Angus Wilber and their ice fishing escapade up Pittsburg way.  This naturally inspires other ice fishing stories.

A fella in Washington told of going ice fishing with his dad, a Yankee of few words.

This was in the late fifties on Philbrick Pond, if anybody knows the spot.  This was before the time of gas powered ice augers and so forth.  The fella and his dad carved out their fishing holes with an ax and a chisel.  They chopped down through about thirty inches of ice and hit . . . MUD.

Dad says, “We best go find that brook channel.”

All’s Well That Ends Well, Even If It’s Topsy Turvy

Evidently the town of Washington has a chief of police with a dry sense of humor.  

Fella told the sad story of how he and his wife went out shopping, which went fine, but coming home on Route 31 they crested a hill and there was a flock of turkeys in their lane.  The fella swerved and, long story short, the car ended up upside-down in the ditch.  The shopping -- everything from toilet paper to lettuce, tomatoes and carrots -- got upended too and spilled all over the car.

The fella and his wife could hear the gasoline gurgling so they extricated themselves as soon as they could.

There weren’t hurt too bad, just a little bunged up.  Soon the rescue and police showed up.  The fella and his wife were, naturally, shaken, so they paid close attention when Chief Marshall walked over to them, looking grim.

“I’ve got bad news,” he said.

“Oh?” they said.

He said, “Your salad has been tossed.”

Actually, the funniest part of this story was as the husband told it, the wife corrected him on a few details, including the punch line, which the husband delivered this way:  “The chief said we had a mixed salad.”

“No,” said the wife, “he said, ‘Your salad has been tossed!’”

Signs R 4 Reading

At the Hannafords, Don says, "You're Rebecca. You tell stories."  I said, "That's right."

Then he told me this story.  He's on the board of selectmen in a town not far from here.  The select board received a bill, hand delivered by an irate out-of-towner.  Seems the fellow's GPS sent him cross country from one tarred road to another, but in-between was a not-tarred road. Kinda rough.  And he got stuck and had to be towed and his axle bent and so forth.

So the selectmen, who ought to be watching after the town roads, got the bill.  The out-of-towner even gave them a photograph of his damaged car, right next to a sign that said:  "Class Six Road, Closed Subject to Gates and Bars."

"I guess you didn't pay the bill," I said to Don.

"Nope."

Nothin' Fancy

At town meeting, the road agent assured the voters that the Inky Swamp Road would be paved in the coming year.

Cleve, who lived on the road, asked if the road agent was planning to "stripe it."

"No need," said the road agent.  "Cleve, all you need to know is drive on the right and pass on the left."

Yankee Trader: You Don't Get What You Won't Pay For

Paul from New Hampton asked if I knew what a dung tag was.  I did not. He explained it was a clump of wool from sheered sheep that was ... well ... from the back of the sheep and not suitable for weaving.    

A local farmer, Clem Beetles, went to the Wool Pool in Boston, where businessmen purchased the sheered wool in bulk.  

One wool buyer offered Clem a price per pound for his wool.  Clem agreed.  The buyer, suspicious, said: "You sure there's no dung tags in those bags?"

Clem said: "You won't pay me for 'em, so I won't give 'em to you."

Skirting the Issue

Mary Shaw in Sanbornton recalled this advice from her high school teacher. When asked how long the student themes should be, the teacher replied: "A theme should be like a skirt. Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be interesting."